


everything i wanted

by brothebro



Series: Jaskobor the illustrious [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Apologies, Background Geralt / Yennefer, Battle of Sodden Hill, Betrayal, Canon Typical Swearing, Character Development, Contains the mountain scene, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Identity Reveal, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Loose Morals, Mage Jaskier | Dandelion, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Secret Identity, Secrets, Self-Betterment, Self-Hatred, Unrequited Jaskier/Geralt, no beta we die like stregobor fucking should have, or at least long-lived
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27920053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brothebro/pseuds/brothebro
Summary: This town, dark and damp, is a real cesspool of humanity. Jaskier is not sure what he was thinking when he decided to set up his research here. Sure, the locals trust him, they seek his help more often than not. But still, the fact remains that the atrocities he committed here… The town is paved in the blood of innocents.And it’s his fault. All his fault.or: Jaskier is a morally ambiguous mage, who tries to become better
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Jaskobor the illustrious [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2053302
Comments: 43
Kudos: 116
Collections: The Witcher Quick Fic #01





	everything i wanted

**Author's Note:**

> this fic deals a bit with forgiveness and self-growth in the context of irrevocable acts of evil.  
> enjoy!

Jaskier takes a deep breath.  _ Inhale, exhale and inhale again. _ He pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers. 

_ This can’t be right. Impossible! _ He goes through pages upon pages of dusty manuscripts, describing in detail his experiments.  _ Melitele, how could he be so blind? _ It’s all the same, wherever he looks. The same answer written again and again and again. 

Fucking perfect. Thirty years worth of work down the drain. 

_ Oh, gods. _

He slams the thick notebook shut, the particles of dust that escape shimmer in the low candlelight. Under other circumstances, he’d stop for a moment to marvel at the view. But not now. Not after he– 

“Gods,” tears pool in his eyes, threatening to spill. “What did I do?!” he howls, and in a fit of anger, he snaps his fingers, setting his research alight. 

He gazes into the dancing flames, his vision blurry from crying. 

“By Melitele, I’m a monster. All those years. All those people, lost for-- for what?” For  _ nothing. _ So many lives perished for his fleets of fancy. 

He really thought he was making a difference, damn it. He really fucking thought-- 

He thought it was justified. But it wasn’t. 

_ Was it? _

He shakes his head and tries to steady his ragged breathing. He’ll get through this. He always does. He lived for three bloody centuries for fuck’s sake. Ban Ard’s finest mage. 

* * *

This town, dark and damp, is a real cesspool of humanity. Jaskier is not sure what he was thinking when he decided to set up his research here. Sure, the locals trust him, they seek his help more often than not. But still, the fact remains that the atrocities he committed here… The town is paved in the blood of innocents. 

And it’s his fault. All his fault.

He finds himself walking through narrow streets and gnarled paths, the tall stone and rotten wood buildings casting dark shadows in the already moonless night. For hours he wanders in this godsforsaken shithole. Somehow, he always avoids the marketplace, where his last experimental subject left her last breath. 

He knew it would end this way. Butchered by the man he tried –  _ and failed  _ – to hire to get rid of her. She was more danger to him alive than dead and at this point, and he thought it didn’t matter whether she lived or died. He could conduct his research on her carcass and nothing would change. 

Except- Except it was all for nought. 

How cruel he’d become over the years. He forgot what it is to be human. He forgot how to live, how to enjoy his life. And all he did was hurt innocents. Like the girl. Like the butcher. 

He idly wonders what happened to the man after he was chased out of the town with torches and pitchforks by the angry mob. Jaskier wonders if he destroyed his life irrevocably, or if he still has a chance to repent. (Not that the man would ever accept his apologies, no, he dares not even dream of that.)

But maybe it’s not too late for Jaskier. Maybe he can leave all this madness behind; start anew. 

_ A new life. That doesn’t sound bad.  _

Maybe he can catch up with his music. Set the magic at the side and focus on his playing. Maybe even songwriting.  _ He’s missed his wonderful lute dearly. _

It’s been so many years, nigh two centuries now, from the last time he shed his old and wise mage illusion. Since he last saw his true self. He barely remembers what he looks like; he only knows he was too pretty, too innocent looking to be taken seriously. And to gain the respect of his peers, of the stinky imbecile nobles that think they control the world, he chose to appear as someone they would respect. 

_ Hah. What a joke. _

He tears the enchanted medallion from his neck and feels the tendrils of chaos slowly leaving his body, shaping it to be what it was always meant to be. Jaskier glances at the big glass pane of the baker’s shop;  _ gods, he looks impossibly young _ . Gone are the crow’s feet, gone is his patchy beard and receding hairline. Gone, too, the middle-aged form of his body, he was so accustomed to. 

He looks barely in his twenties. Yet he’s centuries old. 

And with his glamour shed, too, his carefully constructed persona slips away. 

* * *

Jaskier takes up the lute, burns his past –  _ literally  _ – and starts anew, travelling the continent one town at a time. He locks his magic deep inside the confines of his mind, suppressing the urge to travel by portal ( _ oh, how much easier it is instead of his good old legs _ ). It takes time to adjust to his new life. Sure, it’s tough sometimes. And sure, sometimes he slips up and a hint of who he used to be, resurfaces, but for the first time in his long life, he’s doing good. 

His legs take him from Oxenfurt, where he spends four years studying music – and mastering it – to Temeria and then Rivia, and from Rivia to Aedirn and the edge of the world. 

He’s in Posada, singing nonsense songs,  _ complete and utter poppycock _ , and he’s having the time of his life until- Until the man he wronged so many years ago enters the dingy dirty tavern, looking so much worse since the last time he saw him; his armour looks like it’s been patched a thousand times, his swords barely holding in their cases. The butcher himself looks weary, golden eyes fleeting from person to person, calculating.

_ Fuck _ . Jaskier ruined him. 

He’s heard what that incident did to –  _ what was his name again? _ – the witcher’s reputation. Still, to see it with his own eyes is a whole other thing. 

Jaskier’s got to right his wrong. He has to help the witcher somehow. 

_ Maybe… Yes! Excellent idea! His songs! His songs will fix everything! _

And so he does or at least thinks so. Jaskier follows the witcher – Geralt – from Posada first to a contract about a devil that goes completely sideways and ends up being a rag-tag band of elves practically on the brink of starvation, and then to the entire Continent. 

Geralt is reluctant to let the bard follow him at first, but he warms up to him at –  _ hmmm  _ – their second year travelling together? It does help that Jaskier’s magnificent songwriting has brought the taciturn witcher a lot of contacts and therefore a lot of coin too. 

Jaskier is pleased with these developments. He feels that he might, just might, have a chance for redemption. The guilt still lies thick in the rivers of his mind but he no longer feels like drowning in it. 

He can breathe. He can breathe. 

They travel together side by side, for many more years. During those, they have many adventures, many close brush-offs with death; mainly because Jaskier refuses to even think about his chaos, even when he feels it all around him, intoxicating, calling him to use it at every minor inconvenience. During those years, Jaskier falls inexplicably for the reticent witcher. 

He refuses to instigate any sort of romantic relationship with Geralt though, especially when the white-haired witcher knows nothing of Jaskier’s deep, dark, and quite bloody actually, secrets. It just doesn’t sit well with him. Even when he’s practically a changed man, not resembling that monster he used to be, in not even a hair of his body.

And so Jaskier stays by his side as a friend. A loud and annoying friend, but a friend nonetheless.

And at some point, a child-surprise is claimed by Geralt at a very scandalous Cintran banquet. Jaskier would like to think that it was all Geralt, invoking the law of surprise, but it’s not really. If it weren’t for the bard’s quite timely input on the situation, Geralt would have never claimed the royal kid. 

Well, that’s not actually a bad thing, yet it still feels like the witcher didn’t really want it to happen. Evidence that he ran from Cintra with his tail between his legs and vowed to never return. 

But Destiny rarely listens to the whims of mortals. Jaskier’s seen time and time again the cruel mistress meddling with the affairs of humans. Making empires rise and fall. Manipulating lives to do her bidding; valiant heroes, prophesied to change the world. 

_ What a bunch of poppycock. _

So, it’s Jaskier that remains by his witcher’s side, through thick and thin, cursing the name of Destiny again and again –  _ and his own stupidity too  _ – all to make Geralt smile a little. 

What he would give for that smile. 

Inevitably, Jaskier’s insistence to  _ ‘fuck Destiny’ _ and  _ ‘you can do whatever you want, Geralt’ _ leads to the djinncident – as he likes to call it. 

It’s not all that bad. Sure, his throat swells up and he almost dies choking on his own blood, all because of an ill-worded wish of his witcher but- But without this whole almost dying charade ( _ and seriously, if Jaskier wasn’t so fucking stubborn he’d have healed himself within minutes _ ) they wouldn’t have met Yennefer of Vengerberg. 

Jaskier likes the witch; he’s immediately drawn by her beauty, by her power, by her bottomless want. And she likes him too if their playful back-and-forths are any indication ( _ and the glorious, ballad worthy, lovemaking, of course _ ). Loving her comes so much easier – at a lower cost, if you might – than loving Geralt. Not that Jaskier is capable of stopping feeling so much for the white-haired witcher. No, that’s nigh impossible at this point. It’s just that he hasn’t wronged the raven-haired witch back when he was still considered one of the world’s finest mages. There’s no past between them, just a clean slate where their relationship can only grow and flourish. 

And by Melitele, it does. (As does Yennefer’s and Geralt’s romantic adventure, but that’s neither here nor there. It’s not like Jaskier was ever a stern believer of monogamy. Quite the opposite, in fact.) 

He gives and gives and  _ gives  _ his love freely and Yennefer takes and takes and  _ takes _ . They gravitate towards one another. Like magnets, they stick together. Like magnets, they pull apart when it becomes too much. 

It’s wonderful.

Until it isn’t. 

He knew he shouldn’t have followed Yennefer and Geralt on that damn mountain. He knew it was a bad idea to go dragon hunting, even when he knew that a dragon would be able to offer Yennefer what she so desired all those years. Still, the risk was too damn big. 

He should have talked. Convinced his two most important people that what they’re doing is foolish. Stupid. Utterly moronic. 

Jaskier talks so much, damn him. Why couldn’t he open his bloody mouth and persuade them to stay with him? Perhaps go to the coast. Get away for a while. 

Still, the fact remains that all three of them went on that mountain. Apparently, they defended a dragon egg for that fellow, Borch who –  _ surprise surprise _ – turns out was a golden dragon himself, all while Jaskier was fast asleep in Yennefer’s tent.

When he arrives at the scene, Yennefer’s gone, the telltale remnants of chaos caused by a portal are clogging his senses. And Geralt, his dearest Geralt is shivering, gazing into nothingness. They must have fought, Jaskier thinks, and goes to console his friend ( _ and get the story of exactly what happened before he arrived _ ). 

“Come on, friend. Let’s get out of here,” he says cheerily, “Seems like quite the messy situation,” he gestures at the dead Reavers littering the dragon’s cave. He makes a mental note to go after Yenna after he’s successfully calmed the witcher down. 

“Damnit Jaskier!” Geralt growls, “Why is it that whenever I find myself in a pile of shit, it’s you shovelling it? The djinn, the child-surprise!  _ Everything! _ If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!” 

Well, firstly, he hasn’t seen Geralt so angry since… well, never. Secondly, he’s got a point. Jaskier tried so hard to help Geralt, to help himself really, be rid of this festering rotting guilt that’s been eating him for years now, that he acted foolishly. He’s the one that went along with the whole djinn idea. He even located the damn thing for Geralt, for fuck’s sake. When he could have just brewed him a sleeping draught.

And as for Cintra… Yeah… nudging your friend to claim the law of surprise because it would make a good ballad is hardly a selfless reason. 

And there are a million more occurrences where Jaskier fucked things up; from tavern brawls to ill worded comments towards the wrong person, to  _ –hell–  _ having Geralt save his sorry ass because he was too curious and followed him to a hunt while at the same time was too stubborn to use his innate magic to save himself.

That’s why Jaskier presses his lips into a thin line and nods, “That’s fair, Geralt. You’re right. I’m really sorry about everything. Truly.” 

He’s going to give Geralt his blessed silence, his wish of no more silly bard following him around and making his life a living hell. Jaskier huffs a sad laugh and with a flick of his fingers opens a portal and passes through. He doesn’t even turn back to see his friend one last time. 

In retrospect, he should have thought his dramatic exit a bit more thoroughly because he finds himself in the middle of Oxenfurt, all eyes upon him, with nothing but his bright red doublet. He left his bloody elven lute on that fucking mountain. 

He sighs and opens a portal back. 

“Forgot my lute,” he says, not even bothering to meet the eyes of the white-haired witcher. He just hears Geralt’s breath hitch as Jaskier runs back to camp to gather his meagre belongings. 

* * *

Jaskier wanders the dark paved streets of Oxenfurt, not sure what to do with his life anymore now that the cat is out of the bag and everyone and their mother knows he’s been secretly a mage all this time. 

Well, Yennefer doesn’t know yet. He thinks she doesn’t at least. News travel fast, and surely a rumour or two should have reached her by now. If it didn’t she’d had certainly sought him out during these past two months. But she didn’t. Therefore… 

_ Ugh _ . Jaskier’s a grade-A idiot. A buffoon, similar to the likes of Valdo Marx. 

He’s not sure how to approach this entire – he finds himself waving abstractly at nothing in particular. Should have told Yennefer years ago. She had every right to know. And now she’s probably found out from some rando.  _ How embarrassing. _

With barding no longer a valid option, he’s lost. He has no purpose, no friends, no anything, really. 

Perhaps it’s time to go back to the Brotherhood. 

_ Ugh. _ But he doesn’t want to wear this glamour; this persona no-one likes. He wants to be himself, damnit. Young and foppish. Song and lute and everything.

* * *

Wallowing in self-pity and indecisiveness is a sure way to kill time, Jaskier finds out. It's been months and he's still undecided on the course of action he should take. 

Yes, he fucked up royally once again. Yes, he should think before he acts. And no, the ends do not justify the means. He should have learned that lesson long ago.

He misses his Yenna dearly, still too much a coward to go after her. And he misses Geralt too, the brooding ass he's come to love as his best friend. 

The decision on what to do comes to him a late summer's day. 

He feels the fabric of chaos bending, converging in Aretuza's great halls. He also feels part of it tainted; dark inky tendrils laying root in the south and spreading north, corrupting everything in their way. 

It's been like this for a while now, but he promptly ignored the gnawing feeling in his stomach that something's not right– or rather  _ terribly wrong _ .

There are two options laid before him; do nothing and continue to nurse his heartache with the help of plentiful booze, or go to fucking Aretuza and find out what the everloving shit is going on.

He chooses the latter without much thought and opens a portal to the grand sorceresses school, appearing in the midst of what seems to be a war council.

"Jaskier," Yennefer breathes out, her lovely amethyst eyes wide in disbelief, "I heard the rumours but I didn't-" 

Tissaia cuts her off, with an unamused stern expression adorning her features, “Well well well… Look who the cat dragged back from the dead. What prompted your return,  _ Stregobor _ ?”

Every mage in the room mutters his –  _ quite frankly stupid _ – alias, a cacophony of murmurs and surprise. 

“ _ What the shit? _ ” Yennefer says, her voice barely above a whisper. 

Jaskier clicks his tongue, “Stegobor was a mistake. I no longer go by that dreadful name, Tiss, and I expect you to respect that,” he takes a deep breath, “I assume I’m here for the same reason you are too; the corrupted chaos coming from the south.”

“It’s Nilfgaard,” Tissaia explains, “they took Cintra and are advancing North.”

“They tempered with chaos,” Yennefer adds, “We’re not sure what they are doing but it’s a whole shit-fest out there. They have to be stopped.”  _ Fuck _ . If Cintra has fallen that means Geralt’s child-surprise… Shit. He really hopes the kid made it out of there alive.

Yennefer locks eyes with him and speaks in his mind next,  _ “Us two need to have a long conversation later. Understood? _ ”

“ _ I didn’t expect anything less, _ ” he responds to her, “ _ for what it’s worth, I’m truly sorry. _ ” He speaks aloud next, “I will help. Unaffiliated or not, I’m still a mage. What’s the plan?” 

* * *

The battle of Sodden Hill proves to be the toughest one he’s ever participated in. Nilfgaard’s mages are twisted, cruel, using forbidden magics to turn the tide of battle. 

The sorceresses of Aretuza and some of the mages of Ban Ard that followed into battle are loosing, terribly. A miracle needs to happen in order for them to persevere. To win. 

Jaskier is pulling all the tricks he knows, every single thing he can think of. From illusionary soldiers to invoking fear in the minds of the enemy. It’s hard to defeat a whole army with tricks of the mind though. Especially, if the said army is so single-minded, so fanatic. 

Yet he tries his best. Not for him. Not for forgiveness, he will never get. But for the lives of everyone north of Sodden. He’s seen what Nilfgaard does to people and he will not stand by doing nothing. He’ll fight and fight until his chaos runs low, until his legs give in. Until he dies. 

_ It’s not like he has anything left to live for.  _

And then after everything seems lost. After countless sorcerers are lying either dead or unconscious on the cold hard ground, Yennefer stands up, feral look on her face, chaos swirling around her hands. 

“Yenna, wait!,” Jaskier howls, “Yenna, it will consume you!” he runs and runs as fast as his legs can muster reaching her side, grabbing her hands. 

And he focuses his chaos, offers it to his brilliant witch. And it’s perhaps the most foolish thing he’s done in his life, but if it means Yennefer has a chance to survive, he’ll gladly do it again. 

The spell brings havoc. A fire so big it consumes half of the Sodden forest, and with it the army of black and gold. 

They’ve won.

_ They’ve won.  _

Jaskier falls on the ground fatigued and Yennefer follows shortly after. A humourless peal of laughter escapes his lips, “It’s done. By Melitele, it’s over.”

Yennefer breathes heavily, eyelids heavy from exhaustion, “It’s over,” she echoes, “Thank you, Jask. As much as I dislike it, I owe you one.” 

“You owe me nothing, dear heart. I was an asshole, a real whoreson, keeping this a secret for so many years. I hated myself for what I used to be, that I never stopped to think that hiding is not the solution. That it will only hurt people in the process. And I said it but I will say it again: I am so sorry. I won’t ask for forgiveness, because – Melitele’s tits – the whole thing was fucked up. As soon as I get a sliver of chaos back I’ll be out of your hair for good, I promise.” 

She huffs a laugh and speaks, “Stay.”

“You sure?” he looks at her surprised, “You know that the whole djinn thing was partly my fault too, right?”

“I figured, from what Geralt said. So, help me find a way to rid myself of the bond. Alright, you idiot?” 

“We- we’re good?” he blinks in disbelief. 

“Not yet, but we will be. _Eventually_.”

He smiles at her and helps her up. She’s a beautiful person, his Yennefer; brave and fierce and smart and compassionate (when she wants to). 

He doesn’t expect to be fully forgiven for all the shit he’s pulled in his impossibly long life, but hey, it’s a start and he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

And for her, he’s willing to do anything.  _ Anything _ . Whatever she asks for. She deserves as much.

**Author's Note:**

> :3


End file.
